corner. Froben took out his card.
‘Coffee, everyone?’ The other two nodded. The inspector inserted his card, pressed a button, and the machine started to hum.
‘What do you think, Frank?’ Hulot asked the American, who was silently watching the small plastic cup fill with black liquid.
‘We don’t have much,’ Frank said, deciding to voice his thoughts, ‘and any direction we take will lead nowhere. I told you, Nicolas, our man is smart, very smart. There
are too many coincidences to think that he simply got lucky. For now, our only connection to this bastard is that phone call. If we’re lucky enough, and if he’s enough of a narcissist,
he’ll make others. And if we’re very lucky, he’ll make them to the same person. And if we’re even luckier, he’ll make a mistake. It’s our only hope if we
want to catch him and stop him before he kills again.’ He swallowed a mouthful of his coffee and grimaced. ‘I think it’s time to have a serious talk with Jean-Loup Verdier and the
people at Radio Monte Carlo. I’m sorry to say this, but for the moment we’re in their hands.’ He drained his cup and threw it into the bin.
They headed towards the exit.
‘I imagine there is already a certain amount of . . . agitation . . . in the Principality,’ Froben said to Hulot.
‘Calling it “agitation” is like calling Mike Tyson “uptight”. Things are at the point of collapse. Monte Carlo is a picture-postcard city, you know that. Image is
everything. We spend tons of money to guarantee two things: elegance and safety. And then you get this nut who has elegantly kicked us in the balls. If this doesn’t end soon, heads are going
to roll.’ Hulot paused and sighed. ‘Including mine.’
They reached the front door and said goodbye. Froben stood there watching them as they strolled back to their car. His prizefighter’s face showed solidarity, but also relief that he
wasn’t in their place.
Once they were inside the car, the inspector turned to look at Frank. It was almost dinnertime, and he realized he was hungry.
‘Café de Turin?’ he asked him.
The Café de Turin was a bare-bones place, just benches and rickety tables in Place Garibaldi. They served excellent coquillage, with bottles of chilled Muscadet. He’d taken
Frank and his wife there when they had come to Europe, and the two of them had been in raptures over the huge counter piled with shellfish and the gloved staff busy opening them. They had watched
with shining eyes as the waiters passed with huge trays of oysters and Venus clams and gigantic red shrimp. The tiny restaurant had become their culinary sanctum sanctorum. Hulot had
hesitated at mentioning the place, afraid that the memory would upset Frank. But he seemed changed, or he was at least trying. If he wanted to pull his head up out of the sand, that was the way to
do it. Frank nodded, agreeing with both the choice and Hulot’s good intentions. Whatever he was thinking, it did not show on his face.
‘Café de Turin it is.’
‘You know,’ Hulot said later, relaxing after the food, ‘I’m tired of acting like a TV character. I feel like a caricature of Lieutenant Columbo. I need half an hour off.
If I don’t unwind a little, I’ll go crazy.’
It was evening and the city lights had come on. Frank looked out the window at the people milling around, going in and out of houses, restaurants and offices. Thousands of people with anonymous
faces. The two men both knew that Hulot was lying. There was a killer in the midst of all these gentle summer people and until it was over, neither of them would be able to think about anything
else.
TWELVE
Behind the control room window, Laurent Bedon, the director, did the countdown, turning down the fingers of his raised hand one by one. Then he pointed at Jean-Loup Verdier.
The red light behind him lit up. They were on the air. The deejay pulled his chair a little closer to the microphone on the table in front of
‘Coffee, everyone?’ The other two nodded. The inspector inserted his card, pressed a button, and the machine started to hum.
‘What do you think, Frank?’ Hulot asked the American, who was silently watching the small plastic cup fill with black liquid.
‘We don’t have much,’ Frank said, deciding to voice his thoughts, ‘and any direction we take will lead nowhere. I told you, Nicolas, our man is smart, very smart. There
are too many coincidences to think that he simply got lucky. For now, our only connection to this bastard is that phone call. If we’re lucky enough, and if he’s enough of a narcissist,
he’ll make others. And if we’re very lucky, he’ll make them to the same person. And if we’re even luckier, he’ll make a mistake. It’s our only hope if we
want to catch him and stop him before he kills again.’ He swallowed a mouthful of his coffee and grimaced. ‘I think it’s time to have a serious talk with Jean-Loup Verdier and the
people at Radio Monte Carlo. I’m sorry to say this, but for the moment we’re in their hands.’ He drained his cup and threw it into the bin.
They headed towards the exit.
‘I imagine there is already a certain amount of . . . agitation . . . in the Principality,’ Froben said to Hulot.
‘Calling it “agitation” is like calling Mike Tyson “uptight”. Things are at the point of collapse. Monte Carlo is a picture-postcard city, you know that. Image is
everything. We spend tons of money to guarantee two things: elegance and safety. And then you get this nut who has elegantly kicked us in the balls. If this doesn’t end soon, heads are going
to roll.’ Hulot paused and sighed. ‘Including mine.’
They reached the front door and said goodbye. Froben stood there watching them as they strolled back to their car. His prizefighter’s face showed solidarity, but also relief that he
wasn’t in their place.
Once they were inside the car, the inspector turned to look at Frank. It was almost dinnertime, and he realized he was hungry.
‘Café de Turin?’ he asked him.
The Café de Turin was a bare-bones place, just benches and rickety tables in Place Garibaldi. They served excellent coquillage, with bottles of chilled Muscadet. He’d taken
Frank and his wife there when they had come to Europe, and the two of them had been in raptures over the huge counter piled with shellfish and the gloved staff busy opening them. They had watched
with shining eyes as the waiters passed with huge trays of oysters and Venus clams and gigantic red shrimp. The tiny restaurant had become their culinary sanctum sanctorum. Hulot had
hesitated at mentioning the place, afraid that the memory would upset Frank. But he seemed changed, or he was at least trying. If he wanted to pull his head up out of the sand, that was the way to
do it. Frank nodded, agreeing with both the choice and Hulot’s good intentions. Whatever he was thinking, it did not show on his face.
‘Café de Turin it is.’
‘You know,’ Hulot said later, relaxing after the food, ‘I’m tired of acting like a TV character. I feel like a caricature of Lieutenant Columbo. I need half an hour off.
If I don’t unwind a little, I’ll go crazy.’
It was evening and the city lights had come on. Frank looked out the window at the people milling around, going in and out of houses, restaurants and offices. Thousands of people with anonymous
faces. The two men both knew that Hulot was lying. There was a killer in the midst of all these gentle summer people and until it was over, neither of them would be able to think about anything
else.
TWELVE
Behind the control room window, Laurent Bedon, the director, did the countdown, turning down the fingers of his raised hand one by one. Then he pointed at Jean-Loup Verdier.
The red light behind him lit up. They were on the air. The deejay pulled his chair a little closer to the microphone on the table in front of
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